Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Roy refused her three times.
The first refusal was immediate. “Nae.”
Donaldina was poised across the table in Lachlan’s solar, with both hands resting upon the open ledger between them.
Morning light pressed weakly through the narrow window, gray with the promise of further rain.
The room smelled of old parchment, peat smoke and the salt damp that found its way into every stone of Dun Ard.
She looked at him without blinking. Roy had faced cavalry charges with less certainty of impending difficulty.
“I havenae yet asked the question,” she frowned.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Ye came in carrying two wooden swords.”
Donaldina glanced toward the practice blades she had placed against the wall.
“That proves only that I came prepared.”
“It proves ye expected me tae surrender before the argument began.”
“Nae. It proves I have begun tae understand how long yer arguments generally last.”
Roy leaned back in the chair and studied her.
The bruises Cormac left upon her wrist had faded from black to yellow beneath the edge of her sleeve.
The cut along her forearm had nearly closed.
There was no mark upon her throat now, though Roy continued to see the thin line where a blade rested beneath her jaw whenever he looked too closely.
“Nae,” he repeated.
Donaldina’s mouth tightened. “I willnae remain helpless merely because helplessness is more convenient for the men assigned tae protect me.”
“Yer safety shouldnae depend upon whether ye can defeat an armed man alone.”
“Me safety depended upon MacNicol guards finding their courage upon the cliff path. Ye saw how well that served me.”
The words struck because they were true.
Roy rose from the chair. “Then the guards will be replaced.”
“And when Cormac’s next man is already inside the walls?”
“He willnae reach ye.”
“Cormac reached me twice.”
Roy went still. Donaldina did not soften her tone, though she should not have needed to.
The fault was shared by every man who stood by as Cormac pulled her away from her brother’s funeral, and also by Roy, who came in with a royal decree and the overconfidence that danger would be obvious enough for him to eliminate. Cormac proved him wrong.
Roy walked around the table. “A little swordcraft willnae make ye safe.”
“Nae,” she agreed. “But it may make me difficult.”
Despite himself, Roy remembered her upon the cliff path, informing Cormac that she intended to be very inconvenient. Then, he looked toward the practice swords.
Donaldina followed his gaze. She said nothing.
It was the silence, more than argument, that defeated him.
She was standing before him with her chin lifted, but he saw what pride attempted to conceal.
She remembered the blade against her throat.
She remembered calling for help and watching men hesitate.
She was not asking because she wished to play at war. She was asking because someone had taught her what powerlessness felt like, and she could no longer endure its shape.
Roy exhaled slowly. “One hour.”
Donaldina’s eyes brightened.
“Ye will follow every instruction I give,” he continued, with his index finger lifted at her in warning. “Ye willnae attempt anything because it looks impressive, and ye willnae mistake holding a sword for possessing skill.”
“I would never mistake appearance for substance.”
Roy looked at her. She held his gaze with perfect innocence.
“One hour,” he repeated.
Her smile came swiftly and disappeared almost as quickly. It altered her face enough to make Roy regret several choices that brought him to that room.
Most particularly, the present one.
The training yard was still damp from last night’s rain, with puddles between the stones mirroring fragments of the pale sky.
The air was filled with the scents of wet earth, horses, smoke, and the sharp saltiness of the sea below the walls.
Near the far palisade, several MacIver men practiced their swordplay.
Their movements slowed instantly when Donaldina arrived beside Roy, who shot them a glance.
Recognizing the signal, they immediately discovered an urgent interest in the opposite wall.
Donaldina removed her cloak and laid it across the fence. Beneath it, she wore a plain dark gown with the sleeves fastened closely at her wrists. She had braided her hair, though the sea wind had already drawn several strands loose around her face.
Roy selected the lighter of the wooden swords.
“This isnae a weapon,” he reminded her as he placed it in her hands.
Donaldina examined it. “It bears a remarkable resemblance tae one.”
“It is a length of wood intended tae prevent ye from removing one of me ears while learning.”
“Only one?”
“Grip it.”
Roy looked at her hands. “Nae as though ye intend tae strangle it.”
“I thought determination was desirable.”
“Control is desirable. Determination without control is how Cormac fights.”
Her fingers relaxed immediately. Roy stepped behind her and adjusted her right hand on the hilt. Her skin felt cool under his touch. He disregarded the sensation and moved her other hand below the first. “Keep the wrists firm, but nae rigid.”
“How does one remain firm without becoming rigid?”
“The same way ye govern a council.”
Donaldina glanced back at him. “By permitting men tae speak until they reveal themselves as fools?”
“It is one method.”
He stepped away before the warmth of her back could become another difficulty requiring discipline.
“Feet apart,” he instructed, and she widened her stance.
“Nae that far. Ye are preparing tae defend yourself, nae straddle a river.”
Her eyes narrowed. She moved one foot inward.
Roy tapped the inside of her boot with his practice sword. “Turn this one. Bend the knees. Keep yer weight balanced.”
“I am balanced.”
Roy pressed two fingers gently against her shoulder, causing Donaldina to stumble sideways. She quickly regained her stance, her face showing clear offense.
“Ye were saying?” he asked.
“That ye pushed me without warning.”
“Men intending tae seize ye will seldom offer one.”
Something changed in her face. The playfulness vanished so quickly that Roy wished the words back.
He lowered the sword.
“Again,” he said, more quietly.
This time, he showed her how to settle her weight through her legs rather than holding it high in her shoulders. He corrected the angle of her elbows, the position of her feet, and the manner in which she lifted the blade.
Donaldina listened with an attention more complete than many soldiers gave him. She asked no useless questions. When she failed, she repeated the movement until she understood why.
Roy expected stubbornness. He was not expecting patience.
“Strike,” he told her.
She brought the wooden blade downward. Roy blocked it with ease.
“Again.”
She struck harder. He turned the blow aside.
“Again.”
By the tenth attempt, color had risen in her cheeks. A strand of hair clung to her temple. Her breathing deepened, though she refused to admit she was fatigued. Roy stepped back across the yard, allowing her to advance.
“Dinnae watch me sword,” he instructed.
“It is the portion of ye most likely tae strike me.”
“Watch me shoulders. Me hands may lie. The body seldom does.”
“Men’s mouths appear equally unreliable.”
“That lesson requires nae sword.”
She attacked as he was answering. The wooden blade struck his upper arm with a sharp crack. Roy stared at the spot she had hit.
Donaldina froze. Then satisfaction slowly spread across her face.
“Ye said tae watch the body.”
“I did.”
“Yers suggested distraction.”
“Yers suggested obedience.”
“That was yer first error.”
Roy nearly laughed out loud, but he caught himself just in time. Donaldina saw it, and her smile grew even broader. “Again,” he ordered.
This time she came at him without hesitation.
Her strokes remained rough, driven too much by the arms and not enough by the body, but she was quick.
More dangerously, she learned. When he turned one attack aside, she changed the next.
When he tapped her unguarded shoulder, she adjusted before he could do it again.
Roy struck lightly toward her left. She blocked.
He changed direction. Donaldina ducked beneath the blade and tapped him across the ribs.
The MacIver men at the edge of the yard became very silent. Roy slowly looked toward them. Every face turned elsewhere.
Donaldina’s laugh reached him, bright and startled, as though the sound managed to escape before she could decide whether dignity permitted it.
Roy looked back at her. He heard her speak with anger, grief, and command. He heard her voice cut through a crowded hall until men twice her size obeyed. He heard her scream upon the cliff path and call his name with blood upon her sleeve.
He had never heard her laugh that way before. The sound reached a hidden, guarded part of him and lingered as if it belonged there.
“Did I injure yer pride?” she asked.
“Me pride has survived more formidable opponents.”
“Yet nae, apparently, without scars.”
Roy lifted his sword. “Again.”
Their next exchange moved faster. Donaldina advanced.
Roy retreated, giving her just enough resistance to force thought without defeating her.
Wood struck wood, the sound carrying between the wet walls.
She began to anticipate him. Once, she nearly caught his wrist. Another time, she turned too slowly, and his blade stopped against her shoulder.
“Dead,” he spoke.
“How cheerful.”
“An attacker willnae apologize for the inconvenience.”
“Then I shall endeavor tae remain alive out of spite.”
“I expected nae less.”
She smiled at him again. Roy should not have encouraged it. He knew this with the same certainty with which he knew the reach of his sword and the warning tremor of unstable ground.
Yet, when she attacked once more, he allowed himself to smile in return.
Donaldina saw it, but surprise momentarily distracted her.
Her next step landed too far forward. She lunged, attempting to recover the lost distance, and her boot came down upon a patch of wet stone.
Her foot slid, and the wooden sword flew from her hand.
Roy released his hold and reached her just before she hit the ground. One arm wrapped around her waist, while his other hand caught her forearm, turning her from the stones and pulling her firmly against him.
For a moment, the yard ceased to exist. Donaldina’s hand pressed against his chest. Her body rested within the curve of his arm, warm despite the cold air.
One loosened strand of hair brushed his jaw.
He smelled rain upon her and the faint trace of lavender from whatever soap the women of Dun Ard used.
Her breath brushed against the open collar of his shirt.
Roy’s hand spanned her waist, and he became conscious of every finger.
Donaldina looked up, her amusement and triumph fading from her face.
Her wide eyes reflected something quieter yet equally dangerous, not fear but a different kind of alertness.
Roy had previously caught her, once on the cliff path with death close beneath her, and again in the great hall, where Cormac’s grip stained her bandage red.
Each time allowed no thought beyond keeping her alive.
This was different. There was no blade near her throat, no enemy before them, and no reason for Roy’s arm to remain around her after she had regained her balance.
Yet, he did not release her. Donaldina’s fingers curled slightly against his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart struck with humiliating force.
Neither spoke. Around them, wind passed over the walls. Somewhere in the stable, a horse stamped against its stall. The sea continued its endless assault upon the cliffs below, but even that great sound seemed distant.
Roy’s gaze lowered to her mouth. He stopped it there only an instant before forcing it back to her eyes. Donaldina noticed, and color moved slowly into her cheeks.
“Ye lost yer footing,” he said at last, his voice coming out rough.
“So I gathered.”
He should have stepped away. Instead, his thumb moved once against the fabric at her waist, a small and thoughtless motion that caused her breath to catch.
Roy released her immediately. Donaldina straightened, though she remained close enough that the loose edge of her sleeve brushed his hand. She looked toward the fallen swords rather than at him.
“That,” Roy pointed out, bending to retrieve them, “is why balance matters.”
Donaldina accepted her weapon when he offered it.
“And yet,” she retorted quietly, “I didnae fall.”
Roy met her eyes. “Nae.”
The word held more than either of them intended to examine.
Donaldina closed her fingers around the wooden hilt. “Again?”
Roy should have ended the lesson. The hour was nearly done. She was tired, the stones were wet, and his judgment had already suffered enough damage for one morning.
He lifted his sword.
“Again.”